To Those Who Follow in Our Wake

To Those Who Follow in Our Wake

I. Truly, I live in dark times! An artless word is foolish. A smooth forehead Points to insensitivity. He who laughs Has not yet received The terrible news. What times are these, in which A conversation about trees is almost a crime For in doing so we maintain our...
What Kind of Times Are These?

What Kind of Times Are These?

There’s a place between two stands of trees where the grass grows uphill and the old revolutionary road breaks off into shadows near a meeting-house abandoned by the persecuted who disappeared into those shadows. I’ve walked there picking mushrooms at the...
The Machine Stops

The Machine Stops

For a moment Vashti felt lonely. Then she generated the light, and the sight of her room, flooded with radiance and studded with electric buttons, revived her. There were buttons and switches everywhere—buttons to call for food, for music, for clothing. There was the...
Journey To The End Of The Night

Journey To The End Of The Night

Here’s how it started. I’d never said a word. Not one word. It was Arthur Ganate that made me speak up. Arthur was a friend from med school. So we meet on the Place Clichy. It was after breakfast. He wants to talk to me. I listen. “Not out...
Pedro Paramo

Pedro Paramo

Up and downhill we went, but always descending. We had left the hot wind behind and were sinking into pure, airless heat. The stillness seemed to be waiting for something. “It’s hot here,” I said. “You might say. But this is nothing,” my companion replied. “Try to...